


Wingman

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Altruism, Angst, Drunkenness, F/M, M/M, Mild Spoilers, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones drinks a little too much at Jim's birthday party and gets pensive over the resumption of Spock and Uhura's relationship.  </p><p>This fic is set at/after the conclusion of Star Trek: Beyond.  It's just a little character exploration vignette, testing the waters, so to speak.  </p><p>Gratitude goes out to Scarletjedi for the quick beta read and the excellent suggestions!  ^_^</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wingman

The best thing about Jim’s birthday party, McCoy judged, was the way somebody thoughtfully provided an entire case of good Kentucky bourbon. The fact that McCoy did it himself did nothing to diminish his appreciation of the spirit-- or of his own good sense.

He liberated himself a whole bottle early, just after he heard Spock’s little speech to Uhura. 

“The best sipping whiskey,” he told his glass as he poured the whisky neat, then made a liar of himself by knocking the shot back as if it were any old rotgut. The burn hit his belly just before the fumes rose to his head—or maybe that was the last glass hitting his brain, or the one before. He couldn’t be sure.

He nearly fumbled the next pour, but managed to keep the stuff in the glass instead of spilling it on the floor. Jim flopped down next to him and stuck out his own glass, and Bones obliged him. There was still enough in the bottle to make himself plenty sick. 

“Trying for an epic hangover?”

“I know the precise tira—tiret—titration,” McCoy attempted to tell him with asperity.

“For what? An alcoholic coma?” Jim savored his own drink, noisily spitting ice back into the glass. 

“For my own tolerance.” He’d hit it at least three drinks ago, but he wouldn’t admit that for love nor money. 

“They make a good couple, don’t they, Bones?”

“Then next time she can drive him all over the damn quadrant. Leave me out of it.” He managed to enunciate clearly, but not quietly enough; a few heads turned in his direction.

“But he asked for you,” Kirk pointed out reasonably.

“Damned green-blooded sonofabitch. He just wanted a chance to criticize my driving.”

“This is a birthday party, not a pity party.” Jim set his empty glass aside, took the bottle and put it out of McCoy’s reach, and pointed across the room. “See that?” Two beauties with tilted eyes and russet skin stood by the bar across the way, helping themselves to _hors d’eouvres_. “Gate crashers. I have it on good authority the birthday boy gets his pick of the gate crashers. Come on. Be my wingman.”

“And settle for sloppy seconds after you take your pick?” Reluctantly he let himself be levered up. Spock and Uhura were dancing, for fucksake, though they seemed to be arguing about whether it was a slow dance or a waltz and how best to navigate the steps. They both seemed to be trying to lead, and each of them was apparently attempting to do a different dance.

“Bones, my friend, that is not what I’d call sloppy.” Jim’s eyes were fixed on the girls, and he strode forward, homing in like a photon torpedo. 

“The hell did you mean, ‘pity party?’” McCoy caught the reference about two minutes late. Spock was making an ass of himself. Who even waltzed to a slow song anymore?

“What I said. Stop looking at them. You’re being obvious.”

McCoy wasn’t quite drunk enough to ignore the advice. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I’m not the one whose eyes are brown.”

“My eyes aren’t brown, damn it.” 

“Ladies!” Jim threw his arms open wide, and damned if it didn’t work straight off the bat; they simpered at him, coy, and fell right in line. 

There wouldn’t be one left over; McCoy could already tell. And Jim was right; he’d been staring. 

Jim was already halfway across the room, working it like nobody’s business. He wasn’t the one who needed a damned wingman. McCoy winced. After all that awful business with Jocelyn… he wasn’t such a good role model, but even he was better at this than Spock. The man didn’t know how to dance right, didn’t know how to argue right… and McCoy sure hoped he was better at fucking than he was at fighting with his girlfriend, because he was absolutely _hopeless_ at that.

Nope. No way was this gonna last.

McCoy pulled himself upright and told the bourbon to take a powder, at least until he got out of there. He angled for the door, making sure to pass close by the dancing couple. 

“Take my advice,” he muttered theatrically to Spock, making sure Uhura heard him. “Let _her_ lead.”

Spock shot him an annoyed glare, and that was enough for McCoy; he left with a laugh on his lips. Never mind that it would be gone before he hit the turbolift.


End file.
